


Part of the wonderful mess that we make

by electricblueninja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Destiel - Freeform, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-16 06:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28826472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electricblueninja/pseuds/electricblueninja
Summary: I have no excuse. Just wanted to write some smut, because they...you know.They.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 16
Kudos: 67





	Part of the wonderful mess that we make

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

Cas doesn’t answer: he just averts his gaze, a smile playing around the corners of his mouth.

Dean feels a shiver creeping, slow and delicious, up his spine. He hates it--the way Cas turns him into this pathetic excuse for a man; this…this _puddle_. But Cas looking at him _like that_ is something that he craves. Every minute they’re together, he longs for it. Possessive, but not controlling; a look that says _Above all else in creation, I have chosen you,_ and _Not even God could protect anyone who tries to harm you--not from me,_ and _I have branded your very soul; no one else can have you now._

The angel who almost lost his faith, only to place it into Dean’s dubious safekeeping. Imagine that--you’re thousands of years old, and everything you thought you knew falls apart in front of you, and instead of just giving up your ruined faith, you go right ahead and place it, damaged and fragile as it is, in the clumsy hands of this one guy from Kansas who goes around killing things, and not even for money. A guy who didn’t finish school; a guy who had, as heterosexually as possible, slutted his way around America for decades; a guy who drinks too much, and eats too much, and talks too much, and has trouble using the internet. In spite of all that, in spite of the never-ending list of Dean’s faults and failings and dumb decisions, Cas _chose_ him. Trusts him. He…he said…he said he _lov_ …yep. Yeah.

Dean finds it very uncomfortable to think about these things, so when Cas continues not to answer him, he scowls, grunts, and goes back to cleaning his gun.

Of course, as soon as he does, he feels Cas’ eyes slide back to him, and a renewed prickling sensation rises from his tailbone to the base of his skull.

He sighs, and puts down the gun with overstated exasperation. “Cas. Whatever it is, just say it, man.”

Caught out, Cas stares back at him sheepishly, his neck flushing a little. He’s got that earnest look in his eyes, and it makes Dean's stomach do something weird. It goes all floaty.

Dean will never in a million years admit to another living soul how that look of pure, unadulterated affection makes him feel. Never. Chick-flick moments are not his thing. But there’s that little niggle in the back of his throat and the corners of his eyes, because an angel’s love is…well, it’s overwhelming. All that time he spent, thinking that angels didn’t know how to love like humans do. He was half-right, as it turned out: angels _didn’t_ love like people. Their love _was_ different. But not different because it didn’t exist. Oh no. Different because it was beyond mortal comprehension. An angel’s love was fierce and absolute devotion. The human emotion of love didn’t even touch the sides.

After a moment, Cas looks away, colour rising in his cheeks. “You’ve heard it before,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

Sometimes, Dean feels like he’s developing the ability to literally say his ellipses out loud.

As the “…” hangs heavy in the air between them, a specific kind of heat unfurls soft tendrils in his stomach, reaching out to different parts of his body. He feels his heartbeat accelerating as one tendril wraps around his heart, squeezing a little; a couple more uncurling in his loins, reaching out to his cock and balls and stroking.

What he wouldn’t give to get back a little of the control he once had over his lust. He used to be deliberately hedonistic, but that wasn't to say he didn't _control_ it. Quite the opposite: back then, he chose it. But now? Now Dean knows what it feels like to have Cas inside him, and how it feels to be inside Cas, and there’s no going back from that. No recovery. He can't control that level of desire. He can't control much of anything when he's with Cas.

If it was anyone else turning him on, he would have been able to crack a joke and kill the mood, but it’s been a long time since anyone else has been able to turn him on--like, _really_ turn him on. Cas has owned his heart for longer than he likes to admit. Hell, Dean had hardly slept with anyone for _years_ before the Empty because of the unspoken thing between the two of them, and he certainly hasn’t been with anyone else since he got him back.

Dean might only be human, but his love and his loyalty are also absolute. 

He puts the gun down, and goes over to where Cas is lying along the couch, with his feet up on the armrest. Cas had finally allowed his wardrobe to expand beyond suits and trenchcoats. He even owns his own clothes. Still, in the same way he has his own room but only uses Dean's, most of the time at least one thing he's wearing technically belongs to Dean. And Dean, it turns out, kind of gets off on seeing Cas lounge around in _his_ clothes. It's not quite the same level of 'this belongs to...' as Cas etching his name into Dean's soul, but it'll do.

"Move up," he says, brusquely, a hand on one of Cas' feet.

Cas does not 'move up'. Instead, he smiles a little, raises a suggestive eyebrow, and lets his knees fall outwards, leaving his legs invitingly open. 

After a quick glance at the door to be sure it's locked, Dean accepts the invitation. He clambers awkwardly and carefully into the space left on the seat between Cas' legs. The couch isn't really built for two large men, and protests under their weight, but neither of them really properly notice. 

Cas' eyes are bright, and his hair is sticking up in all directions. He wriggles down, closer to Dean, to lie flat on the seat, and Dean leans down to kiss him. 

It's funny how they kiss each other differently. Cas usually kisses Dean softly; kisses the back of his fingers when he reaches out for him, for example; or his forehead, or the tip of his nose. His kisses are usually contained; small; chaste--tiny tokens of that incomprehensible angelic love. 

Dean, on the other hand, kisses Cas with hunger. He tends to kiss him on the mouth; to play a game of catch and release with lips and tongue. Like now--as he's drawing back from the kiss, he's tugging Cas' lower lip ever-so-gently with his teeth.

Kissing Cas is kind of like kissing the ocean. There's a tide; an ebb and flow; a give and take. But ultimately, Dean is surrounded. Enveloped. Sucked into something far greater than himself, and far, far beyond his comprehension.

What he _does_ comprehend is that his jeans are starting to get uncomfortable, and that he doesn't want Cas to be wearing clothes anymore, not even if it's one of Dean's t-shirts, and--actually, he's not even sure whose jeans those are. Doesn't give a shit--just wants them gone. He wants skin. He wants to be chest-to-chest. Heart to racing heart. He wants to press against Cas, feel hard nipples and pliant muscle press back against him. He wants to drink the grace right out of him. To sink inside him. To feel him tighten around his cock as he writhes beneath him. He wants to move inside him, deeply and gently, rocking their hips together. He wants to bite Cas' throat; to close his teeth lightly on tender skin. He wants to fuck him till they're both on the cusp of ecstasy, then wrap his fingers around Cas' cock and jerk him off while he comes inside him. He _wants_.

"Pants," he mutters, against Cas' mouth, when he comes up for air again.

Confusion flits through Cas' eyes, replaced moments later by understanding. He hums agreement and, holding his gaze, unbuttons and unzips Dean's jeans, sliding one hand under the denim to squeeze him gently through the soft cotton of his underwear.

Dean returns the favour, but is more thorough--he briefly and gently pushes Cas' hand away so that he can strip him of pants and underwear in one fell swoop. 

Not really a swoop. More like awkward tussling. But Cas does his best, both to cooperate and to compensate for Dean's clumsiness, and they achieve the desired result. Shirts are pulled off roughly and flung onto the floor, and Dean leans over Cas, letting those big warm hands pull down his jeans and underwear; feeling the cool air on the skin of his dick, where 95% of his attention is currently concentrated; feeling the unyielding denim waistband of his jeans dig into his hamstrings as he sits back to survey Cas' naked form in all its glory. 

The air is filled with the sound of their laboured breathing. It's so erotically charged in their little bubble of existence that the very air between them seems to shiver with the tension. Cas reaches down to stroke himself, his eyelashes fluttering, deliberately provocative, and Dean practically salivates at the sight. Big, well-formed hands around that big, well-formed--

"Cas..." He closes his eyes and swallows hard. He needs to compose himself. "Cas, I want to...I want to be in you."

Cas' lips curve into a smile at the words. "Well, then," he murmurs, passing his thumb over the red tip of his own cock and sighing, "get the lubricant, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

He says it sarcastically, but in a breath the look in Cas' eyes goes from _his_ Cas--soft; glowing--back to Castiel, Angel of the Lord, Commander of the Garrison--icy; commanding--and Dean gets up, meekly, to take his jeans the rest of the way off and to do as he's told.

The lube ends up all kinds of weird places, but he finds it wrapped in the duvet at the foot of the bed and forces himself to go back to the couch _slowly_ , even though he wants to run.

The prospect of sex with Cas has him pathetically eager, like he's back to being a teenager. Every single time. 

He holds up his prize and uncaps it, sluicing a cold, sloppy mess into his hand. Warms it on his fingertips as he resumes his position on the couch, then slides two of his fingers along the dip between Cas' ass-cheeks, revelling in the way this simple caress alone has Cas pulling his knees up to his chest, flattening his back and tilting his hips to give Dean better access--and a damn good view. It's a little awkward, but Dean scrunches himself up in the free space on the couch so that he can lower his mouth to kiss the twitching tip of Cas' cock, let his lips brush down the shaft, and suck his firm, hot balls into his mouth while he pushes his fingers into his hole.

Cas makes a guttural, animalistic sound, clutching at the back of the couch with one hand, and gripping the back of Dean's head with the other. His legs curl, feet dragging on the sofa fabric. His cock rests against Dean's temple, heavy and wanton, but beyond an affectionate nuzzle, Dean focuses on massaging Cas' balls with his mouth and tongue, letting things get hot and messy and covered in spit and sexual frustation, because it's only going to escalate from here. His fingers slip deeper into Cas' body, which is gripping him tight-- _raised from perdition_ indeed. The air between them is still fizzling with heat; the wet, sucking sound of Dean's lips as they part from Cas' skin is loud and grossly indecent.

Cas groans and tilts his head forward to fix Dean with a steady, heavy-lidded gaze. "Enough. I want _you_."

"Yes, sir," Dean says again, but not at all sarcastic this time. This time, he lets his voice drop into a tone of obedience and go all husky, because he knows Cas likes it. He reaches a second time for the lube and spreads it thickly over his cock, then reaches for Cas' hips with one hand, using the other to hold himself steady as he pushes through the twitching rim of Cas' asshole.

He bites his lip to suppress a wave of expletives as he slides through the tight ring of smooth muscle. Cas' nails bite into his skin: the angel sighs and folds around him; thighs clasping at his waist; back arching as he draws him in deeper. Time and reality seem to fold as well--or rather, Dean loses all sense of both. He loses all sense of anything that's not the way Cas' body clenches around his cock. 

He spreads his arms and bears down, using his shoulders to press Cas' raised knees to his chest. Pliant and greedy, Cas sinks into the cushions, his hands overhead, gripping roughly at the sofa's arm as he drags Dean all the way inside him.

Dean cherishes this moment. There is something about it: about the way they're pressed close together, lips parted, staring into each others' eyes as they breathe unevenly through the terrifying intimacy and vulnerability of being together. 

Sex wasn't like this for Dean _before_ Cas. Once, sex was just harmless fun. Now...

He breathes in the warm smell of Cas' throat. Tastes the faint flavour of coffee on his tongue, which he now drinks whenever Dean does; mostly, Dean suspects, just to be companionable. 

He feels that steady, seemingly-human heartbeat under Cas' ribcage--feels how solid he is; how real. And suddenly, with a sudden rising wave of panic, he thinks he sees black nothingness creeping in on the edges of this perfection. 

The Empty _,_ and _Happiness isn't in the having_ , and Cas disappearing, dissolving into nothingness--

Dean whimpers. It's a pained, strangled sound. He kisses Cas again in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound, clutching the angel's body crushingly close. 

Cas kisses back. Still hard, still hot, still scruffy, but most importantly, still _there_ , folded up beneath Dean, pulsating gently around him. The adrenaline recedes as Cas strokes the back of his head, shushing him between kisses, holding him close. 

"I'm here, Dean. I'm here," he murmurs. His voice is syrupy and soothing. "It's okay. We're okay. We're here. Together." 

His lips meet Dean's again, in a head-spinningly deep kiss, which he follows by saying, almost in a whisper, "Look at me, Dean."

Dean meets the patient blue gaze and clings to it. His anchor. 

"That's it. That's good, Dean. _This_ is good. I've got you. And I _want_ you. I want you to move, now. Gently. I want you to make love to me, Dean."

Dean latches on to the instructions like a lifeline. It's always like this: when he gets frayed at the edges, and starts to unravel, in bad ways, or sad ways, Cas--his voice, his touch--is the thread that stitches him back together. He was just a rag when Cas found him, but his angel has turned him into a tapestry. Cas once told him that he was beautiful, and all he could think, then and now, was _You did this to me. If I'm beautiful, then it's because you_ made _me beautiful._

He swallows hard, and lets the lust, the hunger, rise again. Holds Cas' gaze, and raises one hand to gently grip his throat. The fluttering pulse under his fingers is another sensation that pulls him back into his body, back into _now_. Cas is smiling faintly at the caress, the fire in his eyes alight and dancing.

"I'm here," he says again, his voice rich with want. "I'm here. I _want_ you, Dean. I want you."

Dean exhales sharply. Every word Cas says is like another stitch pulling him back together.

"What do you want me to do to you, Cas?"

"Those things you were praying for earlier."

"Wh..."

"Moving inside me gently, rocking our hips together, your teeth on my throat, your hand on my--"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Cas, that wasn't--that wasn't a _prayer;_ I--"

Cas just smiles beatifically, and slowly and deliberately tilts his hips, rocking gently. Reminding Dean of _exactly_ what he wanted. "I can only hear your prayers, Dean."

"You smooth bastard."

"Smooth? If you prefer me tousled, you're welcome to--"

Dean silences him with a rough kiss and a series of deep, slow thrusts that have Cas moaning into his mouth. He feels like his heart might burst with everything he feels for Cas, let alone his cock, which has been waiting patiently, swollen and ready, compressed by Cas' insides. 

Yes, this is best. Deep and hard, like everything else they have been through together. 

The grip of his teeth on Cas' throat is tentative. He wants to _have_ him, not to hurt him. And Cas trusts him. For some insane reason, Cas _lets_ him do this. He kisses his way along Cas' jawline; back down his neck; along his collarbone. Cas has his hands on the back of Dean's head, and guides him gently to his chest, which Dean bites; his nipples, which Dean sucks on and scrapes his teeth over, all the while pushing in and pulling out. The couch legs scuff loudly with each slow, forceful movement, and Cas' voice is beginning to develop that strained edge to it, cracking on the single repeated syllable of Dean's name. He can hear himself grunting and panting, too; louder than he'd like to be, but he can't seem to turn down the volume. His muscles are constricting; his glutes and core aching with his efforts, and with his grim determination to hold back his climax as long as he can. He wants desperately to speed up and to spill over and fill Cas' insides, but he holds back until he can feel the gooseflesh on Cas' skin and the waves of internal pleasure rippling through his body.

"Let go, Dean," Cas whispers.

Dean presses his own sweating forehead against Cas', which is smooth and dry. Lets the tips of their noses touch. Pushes his hand down between their stomachs and takes hold of Cas' throbbing erection, and _then_ starts to give in; to move faster; to let his breathing become little more than choked, desperate gasps as he rolls his hips against Cas' ass, balls slapping against his skin; to pull and rub and twist his cock in a way that has Cas wide-eyed and shaking, but never looking away, until they do come together, collapsing into each other in a quaking, messy heap of limbs, their torsos sandwiching a slick of Dean's sweat and Cas' cum.

Dean buries his face in the crook of Cas' neck as he tries to recover his senses. It's a hell of a mess they've just made between them, but try as he might, he can't bring himself to be disgusted.

"Need me to pull out?" he asks, mumbling into Cas' neck.

He feels Cas smile. Strong arms tighten around his shoulders, and Cas' feet lock together over his ass. 

"No. I like you there. Stay."

Dean breathes in deeply, taking in Cas' scent.

They stay like that until Dean softens a little more, at which point he draws back enough to say sleepily, "Bath?" 

Cas nods in reply, so Dean extricates himself gently. The couch has suffered already, and matters do not improve when Dean pulls free of Cas' body, but that will have to be a tomorrow problem. 

For now, there is a bath to be run, and a bed to be shared.


End file.
